✞12 Days since my Last Confession✞
[✝]Proverbs 8:13
The fear of the Lord is to hate evil: Pride, and arrogancy, and the evil way, and the froward mouth, do I hate.[✝]
[☨]The archbishop, through the eyes of the lens, is holed up in what looks to be a tall wooden box, actually a make-shift confessional, seated with his late subordinate's bible in his lap. Idly he's flipping through the pages, pausing every so often when he finds a Polaroid stuck between them as a book-marker. He's uttering quite introspectively.[☨]
Dear Lord, seems I'm damned to rot here for next to eternity. This is it. This is Purgatory.. or worse yet Limbo, isn't it? The idling. The chaos. The idling in chaos. The constant, up and down, up and down, roller-coaster that never stops or breaks down. Seems one can nary have a consistent emotion in this place.
[☨]As he holds up the the picture, it's clearly a photo from St. Ferdinand's orphanage; all the children gathered about, with four men and two woman: two priests (Fr.Anderson and Wolfe), a monsignor (Fr.Renaldo), a abbess(The Head Nun), a nun(Sr.Takagi) and a bishop(Epus.Maxwell), standing behind them, all genuine smiles.. save for the bishop who held an air of no-nonsense about him. The tic in his left eye twitched and winced, yet apparently not exactly at the photo itself, for he turned with a leer at the blinking red light of the commlink.[☨]
Yet I know of one that's perpetually left in me: ...Hate--I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, haaaate, You!
[☨]As he reaches to grab the device, his body suddenly turns to jagged convulsions as the wretched thing shocks the holy piss out of him. Seems it doesn't think too fondly of him either.[☨]
. . . ...................ma...maledetto.
The fear of the Lord is to hate evil: Pride, and arrogancy, and the evil way, and the froward mouth, do I hate.[✝]
[☨]The archbishop, through the eyes of the lens, is holed up in what looks to be a tall wooden box, actually a make-shift confessional, seated with his late subordinate's bible in his lap. Idly he's flipping through the pages, pausing every so often when he finds a Polaroid stuck between them as a book-marker. He's uttering quite introspectively.[☨]
Dear Lord, seems I'm damned to rot here for next to eternity. This is it. This is Purgatory.. or worse yet Limbo, isn't it? The idling. The chaos. The idling in chaos. The constant, up and down, up and down, roller-coaster that never stops or breaks down. Seems one can nary have a consistent emotion in this place.
[☨]As he holds up the the picture, it's clearly a photo from St. Ferdinand's orphanage; all the children gathered about, with four men and two woman: two priests (Fr.Anderson and Wolfe), a monsignor (Fr.Renaldo), a abbess(The Head Nun), a nun(Sr.Takagi) and a bishop(Epus.Maxwell), standing behind them, all genuine smiles.. save for the bishop who held an air of no-nonsense about him. The tic in his left eye twitched and winced, yet apparently not exactly at the photo itself, for he turned with a leer at the blinking red light of the commlink.[☨]
Yet I know of one that's perpetually left in me: ...Hate--I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, haaaate, You!
[☨]As he reaches to grab the device, his body suddenly turns to jagged convulsions as the wretched thing shocks the holy piss out of him. Seems it doesn't think too fondly of him either.[☨]
. . . ...................ma...maledetto.